


Wanderer

by SassafrassRex (Serbajean)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Black Paladin Shiro (Voltron), Deities, Shiro Birthday Week 2020, back on my 'mr. tambourine man is the ultimate blackashi song' bullshit, pronouns are used rather loosely for said deities, remember that trans-reality thing? let's talk about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serbajean/pseuds/SassafrassRex
Summary: In the beginning, the Black Lion ran across the sky, leaving behind a trail of stars. That is one story. In another beginning, the Black Lion loved Zarkon and decided to love him forever. In another beginning, the Black Lion loved Shiro as dearly as any deity can.The Black Lion knows there are always more stories. And is determined that Shiro will live to see that, too.
Relationships: Shiro & Black Lion (Voltron), Shiro & Voltron Paladins
Comments: 22
Kudos: 45
Collections: Shiro Birthday Week





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning to cover the whole week's worth of contributions in this one fic. I doubt that will perfectly match up to one day per prompt, but there you have it. The prologue doesn't actually have that much Shiro in it, hence posting the first two together.  
> Also: I'm rusty and wrote this super-fast, in a style that I'm not experienced with (I don't write a ton of drifting-ish creation myths, as a general rule), so please bear with me.

The Minahan people have a story. It is a very old story, rewritten and retooled through ages, and many other stories have made allegory to it. Details change and evolve, as they are bound to do with the passage of time.

When the Lion woke, he saw darkness. His eyes opened and he wondered, had he been dreaming? The Lion rose to his feet and began to walk. His coat was black, as black as the unformed chaos of the early universe. He wandered far and farther, through empty darkness. Until he came upon a pool. Thick like milk, a pool of light. The Lion was tired, so he laid down on his belly, sore paws dunked into the pool. He drank his fill of purity in newness and he dreamt of someone to find. Then the Lion stepped forward, and the splash painted his paws bright white.

The Lion ran, strength refreshed. And everywhere he ran, he left behind a trail of glistening pawprints. These were the first stars. 

The Lion ran and ran and ran, until she found the dawn. Roiling molten and ever-hungry, it stood firmly in her way. It was the first company the Lion ever had.

The nature of fire is to eat, and its mouth yawned wide, to burn her away. 

But the province of fire is to be fought, so the Lion leaped forward with teeth bared.

They fought until the dawn was spent. Until it was just a trembling, tiny thing, burning low. And the Lion laid down and curled her long body around the little spark. She nuzzled its head as her tail tickled its face. She opened her mouth wide and tenderly swallowed it whole.

The wanderer stood and wandered on, newly empowered with a strong right arm. 

The roaming Lion met others in this way. He took his rest on a bed of frost. When he woke up, the frost had melted to water and the Lion began to drown. A torrent rushed down his throat, fast and raucous, so thrilled to meet him. Icey water filled his lungs.

And then they were three.

His strongest, the wanderer met deep in a cave. A smiling creature; large of soul, gravid with stories that had not yet been dreamt. The Black Lion laid down with him to listen. And in listening, the Black Lion loved him, and they were four.

And her youngest. Her youngest, the Lion found nestled in the center of something very strange and very new that was called _alive._

And with the advent of this _alive,_ the wanderer looked down and saw there was no more white left on their paws. Their dream had ended, the universe was _brimming._

Wide awake, the wanderer opened their mouth and breathed out. For this living, breathing universe, they would be living, breathing Lions. They looked to their right and saw their family. They looked forward and saw everything they had dreamt.

So, with the Black Lion at their head, the pride began wandering far and wide, to survey everything they had made. They delighted in the Minahan people and in all peoples, tiny, swarming, and alive. They wandered and they wondered at all things living. 

Then when they were done, the pride built a raft. They made it from metal and ice, and wreathed it in fire. And the Black Lion who regarded them in rechemet, gathered them in before casting off for places unseen, where they have not yet been born.

***

Shiro woke with a soft smile on his face. Blinking slowly, his jaw cracked in a yawn.

That had been a nice one.

***

That's a Minahan story.

In this reality, there are no Minahan. There never have been. A parlance of climate and atmosphere drove to extinction the insect that would have been the species' ancestor, and it would be many millennia more before their planet ever gained sentient life.

But in this reality, there are other people and other stories. The Lions travel far and wide, worshipped and dreaded among planets and peoples. They become part of _sila,_ they join in the orchestra of _tirawahat._ They guard the gates of _heaven,_ they are made to be threads of _tian._ Every sky and every scape, the Lions cross. And many peoples of many worlds look upward to storm-torn skies, and can see the wanderers' colors as they arc from horizon to horizon.

They ascribe their own tales to it, but all know it for a sign of gladness. A good omen, shining after a rain.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro's aware that his hands have been shaking on and off since yesterday.

If, in fact, it was yesterday. It might have been earlier with the way things run together. They've had a rough week—a series of rough weeks, the kind that have everyone subsisting on four hours of sleep for every twenty-one awake, and lucky to even snag that much. They're on protection detail for the entire Kern'xian cluster, where they will remain on-call for as long as it takes until Kern'xis' own system defenses are back in place. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, not when there are still Galra dug in throughout Enseres that the paladins haven't finished rooting out. As it stands, they're needed in one hundred places at once. And any minute that can be spared, Shiro spends touching base with planetary leadership from what seems like every corner of the coalition, trying to make sure that people are fed, that the displaced have shelter, that nobody dies because Shiro looked away from them for too long. The work feels endless, rarely showing many tangible signs of progress. It's just the same slow drag, on and on. Today wasn't a particularly bad day. None of the days seem particularly better or worse when they all blur together. The paladins sleep in shifts, it's been a long time since Shiro's seen everyone together at once, outside their Lions. He knows, rationally, that it won't be like this forever but still...

It's his sleep shift. But his eyes keep drifting open when he tries to lay down and nap. Shiro was asleep within the first ten minutes of his shift, but twisted, fracturing dreams had him awake again within the first twenty. The nightmares are always worst at times like these, but more than that, he's just wound too tight to rest. As exhausted as he is, Shiro's been grasping the threads of his entire world in two hands, he can't just _put it down._ Lately, it seems the only thing keeping him going is inertia. If he stops and rests, he doesn't know how he'll be able to get up again. 

But Shiro knows better than anyone the importance of sleeping when you can, whatever it takes. He _has_ to sleep, or just to rest _somehow._ If he doesn't, he's going to fuck up and get someone killed, and that's just a fact. 

So, he's here. With open hands outstretched, because he doesn't know what else to do.

 _"In times of trouble, we turn to our Lions."_ Allura said that to him, once.

The door hisses open. Shiro squares his shoulders and stands straight-backed, waiting to be invited in. The sight of his Lion loosens something in his chest, and Shiro pulls on a wan smile, swiping a hand across his eyes. He tries not to feel ashamed.

There comes a crackle, a near imperceptible shift in the air, as Black beckons him into his space. With pursed lips and red ears, Shiro ducks his head and jogs forward, uncaring of his hastiness. His palm slaps against warm metal, like winning a race. Upon contact, a ripple spreads out from his hand. The shock jolts back up his arm, one half-second of clenched teeth, of Black flooding over him, the strange sensation of diving up a waterfall. One half-second of things grafting together and the closing of a circuit with a sharp, bright _snap_.

Tension bleeds from his shoulders. Shiro breathes out a sigh long enough for an entire world.

Black doesn't lower his head, Shiro doesn't bother going up to the cockpit. The Black is so large, Shiro could lay flat on his stomach atop his Lion's paw and not be tall enough to reach either side of it. He does just that. Blinking, trying to get his eyes to unsquint and relax, Shiro marvels that anything this huge could be alive.

He and Keith had talked, after the time Keith went into the weblum with Hunk. Shiro wasn't there to see it in person, but Keith regaled him with stomach acid-related terrors, the myriad inconveniences of existing inside an animal's gut, how Hunk wouldn't shut up about him being Galra, the hair-curling perversity of harvesting mucus... 

And then Keith went a little quieter. 

"It was the size of the castle and it was _alive._ One... brain, one awareness. Not a ship, not a planet, not a colony, just... Just one single living thing. I mean..." Keith had shaken his head, searching, "How _old_ d'you think something like that has to be?"

He talked about it filling the Yellow Lion's entire viewport, everything they could see. If Keith had gotten lost inside it, he'd have grown old and died before he ever stepped anywhere twice. It was that big. 

Keith's eyes were haunted when Shiro met them. He held his gaze for a long moment of acknowledgment, just between they two.

"'S kinda fucked up."

And they nodded together. 

With a weak chuckle, Keith talked about the pants-shitting terror that came when it turned and _saw_ them. His voice cracked as he tried to joke. Shiro could recognize a defense mechanism when he heard it, so he laughed, too. Then he told Keith to get some rack and headed off to do the same.

But that night, he laid wide awake and imagined being seen by things that are massive. 

In the quiet of the hanger, Black hums. Keith's fine. And Pidge. And Lance. And Hunk, Allura, Coran, they're fine. Kern'xis and Eneres have plans in place. There's another shipment of rations headed for the Mujion refugee camp under heavy guard, they're not going to starve and die in two hours while Shiro lies down—everyone's fine. He knows they are, if only for the moment. And if they're not, well, they have his comm, they know to call him. The tension in his head unclenches an inch and a trace of banked misery begins to slip through. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be doing this. Shiro hasn't had active suicidal ideation since escaping the Galra, but. He doesn't want to be here. He wants to sleep. He _wants_ to sleep. 

With his arms stretched foolishly wide, Shiro hugs his Lion, the way he'd hugged yakusugi as a kid and he thinks again about things that are old. Things that endure. As a child with his cheek pressed to rough bark, he'd wondered if some of it might rub off on him. If he only held on tight enough. Now, flat on his belly, Shiro gives a defensive little laugh at himself, because of course he's being ridiculous, but... But maybe if he could just stay here and hold on tight enough? Whatever trait it is, whatever mystery— maybe the Black could share it with him?

Whatever it is that lets a thing endure so much living.

Shiro is barely twenty-six years old. He's lived less than a thousandth of the eons Black has seen, but in quiet moments he wonders how much more he has left in him. 

A sob bubbles up out of his chest without him meaning for it. One breath that hitches its way in, then stutters its way out. Just that one; his own noise startles him quiet. 

A whisper from Black wraps around his mind and things inside him untwist one iota further. A tear slips down his face. His Lion is right here. With another blink, Shiro sees the astral plane. The Lion is strength at his side and soft fur to twine round his fingers. A long mane, perfectly suited to hiding tears in, from kids who are supposed to be braver. Back in the castle, Shiro rolls onto his back and feels cold metal, the joint where Black's foreleg becomes his paw. He breathes in the smell of ozone, the lingering traces of atoms burst open. 

His Lion is right here. 

Shiro opens his eyes, unsure of exactly when he'd shut them so tightly. There are lights in front of him. Dancing across his skin, netting their way along his nerves. Little darting lights, the kind only witnessed by sorcerers and lunatics. And by people like Shiro, who've connected with Lions. They leap between his skin and Black's. His nerves synapse on his Lion's; here, they are a closed circuit. 

And for just a moment he feels less alone in his exhaustion, less contemptible in his failings. That he might be less a thing built of rust. It doesn't set him to rights. It's not as if Black scrubs away the sharp-fingered handprints burned into his mind. But it's as if Black takes the sadness he's carried each day, and offers to share it with him. 

Out on the steppe, when winter storms roll through, riders huddle close to their horses, seeking a strength that's like mercy, a wall against the wind. Soft fur that blazes with enough heat to rekindle hopes in frozen hearts and make a man believe in spring. So Shiro leans his weight into Black, to huddle close and leech some of that heat. A simple blessing of apricity, dealt in bright flashes of electrical synapse. There are dead faces Shiro can't unsee, but Black is willing to watch them with him. There is fear that he cannot put down, but Black is willing to stay by his side.

"You don't even mind, do you?" He wipes his face with a shaking hand. At Black's rumble, Shiro sniffs and forces a smile. "No. Big monster like you, you don't even feel it."

And why would he? Sharks don't mind the fish that ride their wake. Half-ton buffalo don't notice eight-ounce bats that come to sip blood from their sides. The elephants ignore the birds on their shoulders and what is a boat, to the ocean it sails on? What are people, however grateful, to the sun they orbit?

What mind would Shiro's cosmic, wandering Lion ever pay to one tattered, grateful little clown? Who couldn't lift his own weight, so he clings to the Black instead.

Shiro grips with white-knuckled, worshipful hands. "You could wake-haul a world, it wouldn't bother you at all." The Black could carry a thousand idiots like Shiro and never even notice. 

_Not so._

His Lion doesn't exactly speak in words, but the metal under Shiro's hands groans in quiet disent. Black tells him, 

_I notice._

_I notice your weight._

***

Days get better. And they get worse. Whenever times trend towards the bleak, Shiro can be found each evening, alone in his hanger. Resting on the floor with head tilted as though sunward, to the towering form of the Black Lion. 

He'll open his eyes to the familiar plane of endless space. Warm at his back, the stolidity of his Lion is wrapped in dark fur.

Always, the Black Lion tells him stories.

Long stories that make Shiro weep. And smile. And marvel. Stories that chill him deeper than his bones can recognize. Stories that warm him to such depth of understanding that it feels a little like dying.

Stories that slip his recollection, when his eyes open and he is returned to the castle.

Shiro's dreams are horrors, so the Black Lion draws him close and they dream together.

_***_

_I notice your weight._

_If you fell, you could drag stars down with you._


	3. Chapter 3

But what will they be?

The little Altean artificer considers their raft, plotting and pondering. He's trying to build, but with no greater plan than a child stacking one rock on top of another. What will they be?

The Black turns to the others, seeking counsel.

_Are we?_

_We are._

So together, they lean down to the little artificer-king. And in his ear, they whisper, _Lions._

***

But this one doesn't bow.

The artificer-king, the scholar, the charmer— all the others bow. They stand in awe of towering machines and they speak in hushed tones. But this one looks at the Lions' dead on and does not blink.

The Black Lion stares down at him, ominously unimpressed. The other Lions light their eyes, responding to the touch of their new paladins, but Black has held firm. The king will have to earn her regard.

But looking at this gritty, hungry little creature... she realizes with a start that she may have to earn _his_ regard right back. This ravenous thing with far-seeing dreams, who will swallow those around him, the way the Lion swallowed the dawn and the river— she stares at him and he still does not bend his neck. Too excited to be fearful, he talks rapidly, industrious and bold, already planning on how he can use her for his own ends. Already he is lit from the inside with prospects and beautiful tomorrows full of the things he's going to build, the things he's going to find, the things he's going to _see._ This bold, this cunning, this _presumptuous_ little pioneer is the one who wants to lead her paladins and pride.

If the Black Lion were given to it, she would be grinning.

Zarkon is no one's acolyte. Zarkon is no one's priest.

He is young. Even for a mortal, he is young. But far from featherlight, his fledgling soul is already weighed down with the dark thrill of ambition. 

Like calls to like. The Black Lion considers this wicked little beast and decides _yes, this one._ The radical. The seeker. The one who won't bow. 

***

_Like your mayflies arrogant, do you?_ Shiro watches the stars spin overhead.

_I do._

Creatures that don't (that won't, that refuse to) see how small they are, have always been Black's delight. Tiny little fighters—and here, the Lion lips at Shiro's hair—who don't care how tall their opponents stand over them. And isn't it arrogance, to think that seven people will unmake an empire? It's more than arrogance, it's insanity. It is a loud, foolish, _annoying_ overstatement of their own importance, for these mortals to even dare. It is brave. And it is greedy. 

_It's why I love you._

The Lion rubs his head over the top of Shiro's and it's a bit like being nudged by a skyscraper. He keeps his back straight, and there's approval in the rumble of Black's voice. For seven mortals to even venture from their beds in the morning, is already the height of presumptuousness. Clever creatures, demanding creatures, with the audacity to think they might change worlds—this is what their cause needs and this is what Black demands of his paladin. He will tolerate no less. 

_And you are who I chose._

Shiro has more respect (more good sense) than to think anything could change that. The Black Lion has lived eons, nothing changes his mind once he's made it up. Shiro is his paladin and he will not choose another. 

(Shiro supposes the onus is on him then, to ensure it doesn't become a mistake.)

But even knowing that... at the back of his mind, Shiro still believes he has a duty to hold himself in check. Some part of him remains afraid of himself, of the things he might do if he were spurred forward instead of leashed. Shiro has monstrousness in his history. There is damage, there is abuse and unmaking. His are not the clean hands and the humble goodwill that many (Shiro included) might think a paladin ought to have. 

The Black Lion knocks him again, harder. Shiro plants a hand behind the Lion's shoulder and pushes back. And keeps pushing, until Black drops his great maned head and retreats a step. Not in obeisance, but in reward because _to push back_ is what he wants. To push back is right, always, and the Lion is pleased with it. The Black would sooner see Shiro proud than see him grateful; sooner see him temerious than see him appreciative. 

_Don't ever be timid. Or you're of no use to anyone._

Least of all, to the Black. 

(Black had thought that about Zarkon, too.)

***

The Black Lion has learned to live with the distance between himself and his pride. To be built into bodies—as strong and brilliant as these are—has opened a distance between him and his cohort that they've never known before. Though he strains at the confines of ungiving metal, he must content himself with watching and loving them from afar. 

But he is still close enough that he doesn't miss it, when the other Lions begin to wilt.

He can see light through them. Like a too-thin shade pulled across a window streaming sunshine, he can see his family lessened. Strength reduced to infirmity, skin stretched so tight as to turn translucent. Their strong legs are skinny, they totter like new fawns. As though born too early, they seem barely able to stand.

It is hideous. He can see light through them. His pride, his family have grown so thin that the _Black Lion can see light through them._

In eons of wandering, the pride has never been so weak before. The power that once danced heedless between their claws has been poured into the service of planet and system, of cluster and galaxy. King Alfor built them bodies, and they are defenders now, not merely observers. The Lions have learned service, they revel in giving of themselves. But it is not love for the universe that has made the Lions so thin. It is not selflessness that has stripped them bare. 

It is the love for the tiny flecks of life that are their pilots. The Lions have always loved creation, that is nothing new. In that pursuit, the paladins and Lions verily _strengthen_ each other. But it is this personal, _private_ love for their paladins that makes the Lion's thinner. Makes them vulnerable, makes them _accessible._

And to the Black Lion's amazement, his family delights. They are not maligning, but celebrating these tiny lives they safeguard. He sees them shake their heads and laugh; they joy to be forlorn. The power they've lost, the vibrancy, the missing flecks of their souls—these are gifts given. The mortals are small and ephemeral, but never has anyone been so well loved (and to be so well loved makes them to shine). 

The Black Lion is devoted to his pride, he will not object. Their loves are his and he gladdens in their gladness. If it pleases them to adore their mortals, he will not counsel otherwise. 

As for him, he'll hold his shadowling at proper distance. Theirs is a partnership of mutual benefit and reliance. His paladin makes him stronger; to protect the mortal is to protect the other Lions, and to protect the wide universe in Black's keeping. There is nothing more to it than that. 

And if this makes the other Lions smile at him. If they peer with knowing eyes, as though _they_ could see light streaming from him as well...

He shakes out his thinning mane and pretends not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the timing worked out *rubs hands together*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: big damn hero moments enclosed!

The Black Lion loves a mortal.

What nonsense. The king of Diabazaal is a blink of an eye, there and gone. What hold could he ever exert on a creature so far beyond him? The Black Lion has stood unchanging for millennia upon millennia. They are eternal, they are impossible, they are vast.

And yet—what bafflement!—the Black Lion loves a mortal.

Perfect One, why? 

***

There's a lag in his vision. Just a quick half-second, like the Garrison simulator when it was acting up. Keith would go on such a tear when it—

Shiro clumsily throws himself backward, and the swipe that would have opened his guts passes him by. 

There's no time for this. He can't be fucking around when he has no idea where Hunk is, not when he can hear Lance and Keith pinned down over the comm. Shiro's way is blocked by one the most brutish individuals he's ever met. He has to get to them, but he can't focus. He's not fighting smart, he's just reacting and _fuck, get your head on right,_ or else he might be hearing them die very soon.

The extra fear doesn't help as much as he wishes it would.

Second-in-command to the boss they came here looking for, intel had his name as _Tekhan_ , of a people called the Desiradi. He's a full three feet taller than Shiro with two extra limbs and he's disturbingly fast. Shiro ducks low and rakes a line down Tekhan's flank, but it's not as deep as he wants. Then the hold he manages isn't locked. Tekhan howls, but turns and plucks Shiro off like a leech. He tosses him to the ground, so Shiro aims a kick back at his knee. It connects, but not well.

He's reacting instead of thinking, his brain's all a fog. Stupid, stupid, he _knows_ to protect his head, knows _not to let them hit your head, no matter what,_ but the fucker was so quick. 

" _\--...say again, we need immediate evac-... ... pinned without reliable- ... ... Shiro, now would be a really good time-_ " 

Tekhan was the one who ripped the pipe off the wall, when Shiro ducked the hand that was aimed for his face. It's got a sharp, pointed edge like the bevel of a needle, and if Shiro ignores the fear sparked by the fact that Tekhan _ripped it loose without hardly trying,_ it makes for a decent weapon. 

" _\--... guys-... - **need** backup now!... ... ...-down and I don't know where Keith is-... ... not sure if-oh SHIT-... ... Shiro, get up here- _"

He needs to get to them, he's _supposed_ to be their relief. There's no time for this, but the world just won't sharpen up. His head's swimming. Tekhan swings at him, and Shiro jams his Galra arm upward. Suddenly, he's looking at Tekhan's hand, dangling off his wrist where Shiro just cut halfway through it. But Tekhan has three others. One of them snaps out grab onto Shiro's. There's a sizzling sound and a sharp stench fills the air. Tekhan snarls, face ghoulishly lit with purple light from where he traps Shiro's wrist in his bare hand. 

And then Tekhan's fist slams into him, right at the lower edge of his chestplate and Shiro's sent skidding backwards across the floor. He pries his eyes open, realizing he can't breathe. There's no pain where he just got hit. The pipe's still in his hand, he _can't bre-_

Shiro scrambles away before three of Tekhan's fists land where he'd just been lying. He trips and stumbles, his arms are spaghetti, he can't make sense of where—

" _SHIRO, WHERE ARE YOU?_ "

Shiro's focus finally snaps into place. He finds his left leg, winds it between Tekhan's and pulls, putting a bend in the other's foundationt. Shiro stomps on his knee—the right way this time—and Tekhan drops with bone jutting through skin. A hand closes around Shiro's throat, but he's flipping his grip around and ramming the broken edge of the pipe up underneath Tekhan's arm, into his torso.

Tekhan's eyes go wide. The hand drops, but Shiro's already up and running. 

***

It is a strange fate, even to the Black Lion themself. 

The king loves them, for the support and the power and the _home_ they provide. And they love the king, for the direction he confers. And more, beyond that—they have never had a body of their own before. They have never had a mortal all their own before either. Despite a thousand priests and petitioners, they've never known anything like this, and they delight in their little king. He's not their cub, but yes, the Lion delights. They watch him with his little wife and they revel. They see how he directs the other paladins, progressing and growing into himself and they could just eat him up. 

***

Zarkon, the Black Lion quickly learns, is a radical. When his wife comes to him bearing dark discoveries, he spins her around in his arms and declares her a marvel (the Lion loves the way they love each other). He dives into her findings headlong. He _will_ see his people move forward. Even if he and his beloved must claw through the dark themselves and seize every scrap of progress with their own bare, blistered hands. It is a wonder that one so small could be so unstoppable. That one stiff, humorless little man could find it in himself,

To be bright and bold and winged. 

His arrogance is entertaining, his sincerity, charismatic. 

His conviction is stunning. 

The laughter of the other Lions twinkles like starlight—the Black is more enamored than any of them. 

The Black would protect him from any evil in the universe, so that the storm in his heart never quiets and the boldness never dies. Black's little shadowling will never know peace, it is not in his nature. Something that's broken inside him—some raw wire, forever scraping; the itching, covetous rectitude that assumes singular responsibility for the good and safety of everything he sees—will never let him know contentment.

But the Black Lion would have him know joy. Would show him every far flung, beautiful corner of the systems he protects so fiercely. Would open his eyes wide to the worlds' wonders and give him _anything._

And the Black Lion has the power to give quite a lot. 

***

"Pidge, where am I heading?" Shiro orders into his comm. He thinks he recognizes this hall but—

"Left turn, twenty meters." Pidge's voice comes out tight. "Then down a level, head for corridor 874. Shiro," she grits out, "you really need to hurry."

"What's happening?" He jumps down a narrow flight of stairs, elbows braced on the rails. The landing jars up his spine and rattles his chest where his armor sports am impressive dent. He can breathe at least, but it sure doesn't feel good. As he runs, he sends out a call to Black, who's in position with the rest of the Lions. Twenty kilometers is a long distance to communicate, even for Shiro, but he sends, _Be ready,_ as loud as he can, and just catches the affirmative pinged back at him.

"Well, Keith's almost home, he's all the way to level 24. Hunk too, he's at 17. We're out of here in ffifteen dobashes at most. But Lance ran into a detachment, got pinned. Last contact was about seven dobashes ago. Said he got out, made it to the catwalk above level 57, but he got followed. Only one guard per him, but it sounds like it's another Desiradi, same as the SIC."

Shiro's blood runs cold. Another one. Lance is facing another one of that bruiser Shiro just put down.

"Also, Keith started a fire on level 54."

Shiro darts round a corner and slices through the sentry waiting there. "He _what?_ "

"Yeah. Pretty big one, too. It's making good chaos, but Lance confirmed that yes, it has reached him so... yeah, hurry?"

Shiro's feet pound down the hall. 

***

When the Lion first stares down at Shiro, presented to her by her pride, standing so endlessly small, she thinks, _Not again._

Not ever again. 

But when the fledgling paladins go to battle the first time—brave little children with no experience; they had no chance at all and still, they went—he takes it upon himself to _give_ them a chance. He wrests it out of nothing with his own two hands. Voltron hasn't formed in ten thousand years, there's no way it could happen. But he challenges that and he wins. Only Zarkon could have ever forced the impossible like he just did. 

When the battle is done (the _victory,_ rather. The victory that these infant paladins had no right to expect), the Black Lion looks at him again. It's a flat fact, Shiro saved them. After such a showing, there is little question he is hers. Black peers at him closely. The sharp angle of his smile, the strength that doesn't need to prove itself, that just _is._ The light in his gray eyes, a spark identifiable in one who is moving forward, and if he finds the world in his way, the world will have only one chance to get up and move. 

But there's fear there too, bone-deep and raw. The Black Lion seethes with an instinctive rage because they hurt him so much. _Zarkon_ hurt him so much. 

It makes Black look twice at the feat he managed. Shiro did an impossible thing, because he knew firsthand what would be the consequence of failure. She has found someone with all the drive and the ambition that she wants. But he has been tested in fire. Temporized, in a way that Zarkon hadn't been, and it has left him unbreakable.

Her paladin is unbreakable.

 _This time,_ Black decides to herself. This time, she will do it right. 

***

"Guys, I really can't wait anymore!" There's too much blood on Lance's fingertips to keep his grip. Below him, Ugly is snarling and spitting, trying to scale the recently-horizontal-now-distressingly-vertical catwalk they cling to, and normally, Lance would give him props for effort because that's mad dedication to Lance's demise right there, definitely Above and Beyond. But honestly, now that gravity and Ugly _both_ are gunning for his head, Lance is just a little preoccupied. There's fire below them and it's not bad yet, but Lance knows there's ammo stored down there, and if there's ammo, there's probably a dozen other things that explode. 

Lance had thought he was safe on the catwalk. It was designed for the pint-sized workers that keep this place going, and the alien chasing him looks to weigh a half a ton. There was _obviously_ no way he'd be able to cross, so imagine Lance's surprise when the _stupid idiot tried to do just that._

Leading to a very brief fight (he'll be embarrassed some other time), followed by Lance screaming for help at the top of his lungs, before being saved by the ominous creaking of a catwalk whose weight limit has been exceeded.

Leading _then,_ to Lance's current predicament, of hanging on for dear life while trying to climb the formerly flat platform that is now hanging at an uncomfortably vertical angle. If he falls, he's dead. If he stays here and Ugly gets to him, he's dead. If he stays here and the fire reaches any kind of accelerant, he's dead. All the bayards are still in the null-cage where they surrendered them yesterday to the local LEOs in good faith and Lance's only other gun is currently somewhere thirty or so feet below him. He's every kind of screwed, right now. 

"Guys?" he asks for the hundredth time. But when the catwalk fell, his ear and comm got whacked, and Lance doesn't have a free hand to fiddle with it. "Shiro? Shiro, come on!"

If he can get back up to the platform lining the edges of the room, then he should be able to escape to one of the connecting levels. Or there's always the window, but Blue's twenty klicks away and Lance is something like thirty stories up. If he leapt, she'd never make it here before he was a splatter on the ground.

"Shiro!" he tries again. Nothing from the comm. Lance stretches to another handhold. "Worst backup ever," he grits through his teeth, trying to wedge his bloodied fingertips into the crevasse, before giving up and looking for something better. His comm remains stubbornly silent. Air whistles in and out of his mouth, big, panicked breaths. The platform he's aiming for is a good fifteen feet away still. 

A high, sharp whistle pierces the air. Lance's head whips around and—

"Shiro!" 

There's the Black Paladin, one wall over and a few levels down. The relief makes Lance giddy, gives his hands new strength to hold on a bit longer. Shiro's bounding up the wall and Lance doesn't even have the wherewithal to be annoyed at how easy he's making it look because Lance can barely feel his hands anymore and his arms are shaking. He hears a sudden _rat-at-at_ sound and thinks, _oh, Shiro found a gun. That's good news,_ but the sound of metal ricocheting off walls makes him realize it was a box of ammo igniting. Lance coughs hard, throat tight and scratchy. He's having to squint, to make Shiro out. _Riiiiiiight,_ comes the sluggish recollection. _The room's filling with smoke._ He hears a scream from below him. _Ugly's gone,_ he realizes, but it might not make much difference in a minute, here.

Lance blinks and suddenly Shiro's right above him, leaning down to grab Lance's hand. And, in every way there is, he looks _amazing._ Lance can feel the image being permanently burned into his brain. One side of Shiro's face is swollen, he's got a smear of black grease across his cheek and blood has run down his face from a cut somewhere in his hairline. His eyes are flashing and sweat's made his hair stringy. But he's _there._ And for that, he is _gorgeous._

Below them, there's a rumble. Lance looks down and sees nothing but a bright swath of fire before the sudden shockwave rattles the catwalk. Lance's anchor is good, but he still slides down a foot and has to scramble for another. Shiro is knocked completely loose. 

For a nanosecond, Lance feels ice-cold horror, watching Shiro fall. He smacks into an edge, but snags a handhold about twelve feet down and stops his descent dead in its tracks. The _wrench_ has Lance feeling sympathy pangs in his shoulders. It's about all they _can_ feel, they've gone numb too. 

Ever the fighter, Shiro hauls himself stubbornly back up, scrambling to the steep incline of the catwalk, just below where Lance is hanging. Lance doesn't have time to commend the effort, he's coughing hard and his fingertips are slipping. The world narrows. He can't keep his fingers crimped. They're numb and dead and no matter what he does he _can't. make them—_ He loses the grip with one hand, stretches it out desperately towards Shiro as the other finally slips and he's—

And Shiro snatches his wrist. Fast, like a raptor seizing a pigeon midflight. Lance swings in a wide arc, convinced his momentum will either tear that grip loose or peel Shiro right off the wall and they'll both drop. The pressure on his shoulder doubles for one horrifying instant. 

But Shiro doesn't let go. Doesn't fall. And Lance's swing loses energy. Shiro bodily hauls him up until Lance can rest at a better hold. Then Shiro edges over a few meters until he— _oh. Guess it's the window after all—_ chambers a hit and rams his Galra hand right through the clear barrier. The whole panel shatters just like glass would have, and suddenly the wind is rushing by. Lance has a brief second to think, _Air + fire =..._

—Before Shiro's grabbed him and flung them both airborne. 

The Lions are twenty klicks away. Even with their uncanny ability to know when their paladins are in trouble, they could never get here fast enough. 

Which is why Lance is boggled beyond belief when the Black Lion catches them barely fifteen feet down. _You knew,_ he realizes. _How?_

The jaws snap shut, Black's belly skimming dangerously close to the side of the tower, before breaking off and heading for the others. They're well away by the time the fire spills over. 

***

When Zarkon stops loving the Black Lion, the Lion takes little notice. Why should he, naught has he ever gained from the mortal's love. He has no need of Zarkon's regard and he is not lessened for the lack of it.

That the Black Lion is thinner, is of no relation to his mortal.

None. What does the sky care for the whims of the ants that crawl beneath it? If Zarkon doesn't love him, the Black doesn't need him to. The Black just needs—wants—him here. The Lion owns _him,_ the Lion loves _him,_ what say has he? He is the Lion's to command and the Lion's to dismiss. 

And the decision has already been made. The Black Lion will love his mortal, whatever tantrum the little king throws.

***

Until the Lion startles to discover how thin he's become. 

***

"You couldn't have known," Shiro murmurs. It's weak as consolation goes, because honestly, maybe Black _should_ have known. After living millennia, it's not like he had the excuse of inexperience. But Shiro wasn't there. He couldn't say. 

Lance is in the healing pod for smoke inhalation. A scan showed Keith managed to nab himself a scary-looking epidural hematoma, so he is too. And Pidge had said Hunk was in the clear, but hadn't mentioned he'd taken a shot that burned a hole clean through his arm. Shiro's next in line for the pod, once one of them gets out. In the meantime, Coran pulled his chestplate off—dented beyond any hope of salvaging, his own personal crumple zone—put him in a rib brace and said, "We'll have you in a pod in no time. Just... try not to move around too much until then. Or breathe. Much. If you can help it..."

So here Shiro is, passing the time with Black, avoiding movement and/or breathing, though it's been somewhat catch-as-catch-can with the latter. His Lion would rather Shiro try to sleep until it's his turn, but Shiro was both too keyed up and too uncomfortable to have any success. So, the Black lays on his side and Shiro leans back against him, face turned upward to where the stories of Black's previous lives spin across the astral plane. 

"Do you still love him?"

Black freezes for just a second, then abruptly climbs to his feet.

Suddenly without his backrest, Shiro flops flat on the floor. The jarring startles a pained groan out of his mouth. Black shakes out his mane and Shiro's face flames at asking something so childish.

He watches his Lion pace in a circle, restless. Agitated. High above, the winking stars ask _would you look to command me?_ Like Zarkon did. _Would you tell me not to?_

The Black Lion is vast like Shiro is not. And will not suffer to be lessened. The Black Lion is the way to freedom. For Shiro, and for so many besides him. The Black Lion chose Shiro and the Black Lion is peace like Shiro could never have had.

"No," and Shiro sits himself back up, offering both outstretched hands. "Never." Black stares at him for a long, assessing moment. Then he walks back and lays down with his head in Shiro's arms. 

Shiro smiles softly and combs his fingers through the Lion's mane, about the only comfort someone like him could ever offer someone like Black. Even laid out on his side, the Lion's shoulder is barely lower than Shiro's, so it isn't long before Shiro slips down to pillow his head on soft fur. 

_Now sleep._

And Shiro obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish so much I'd had this chapter take place somewhere cold, cuz I absolutely would have included a scene of Shiro coaching Lance through an episode of the screaming barfies. But by the time I realized "oops. fire is _warm_ " it was about a half-hour to posting time. *snaps fingers* Oh well.  
> That said, even if it's warm out, if you hang for a long time, all the blood drains out of your hands and arms (hence them going numb), and when it rushes back in it feels _bad._ Not screaming barfies-bad (that happens when you're ice-climbing and your hands go cold, on top of also being bloodless, then when they warm back up it hurts so bad that you (you may have guessed) scream and then barf), but still pretty miserable. Sorry Lance.  
> Oh. Also don't wrap rib fractures. And definitely *do* breathe bunches. XD Shiro and Coran are doing what would be the 100% wrong thing here, but Shiro's going to be inside a pod in a matter of hours. This is just tiding him over until then, cuz even though braces aren't actually *good* for you, they definitely are more comfortable.


	5. Chapter 5

In ten thousand years of waiting she'd forgotten what having a paladin was like. To have her essence so inextricably twined with the strands of another. To see like this little mortal man sees, and love the way a mortal loves; to move and have being within a world both so large and so small, and so brimming with life—

It belies belief.

The Trelan confederation is powerful, but their leadership is blind and is small-minded and right now, Shiro hates them. _Hates_ them like he's hated few enemies outside the Galra, with whom the Trelan are aligned. As it courses down their bond, the Black Lion samples the finer notes of his disdain. The resemblance to Zarkon is amusing. There's that inborn belligerence that never learned how to retreat. And that dumb, angry courage that will throw itself behind doomed efforts for lofty causes. 

Their similarities aren't surprising—the traits Black needs from her paladin haven't changed in her millennia of living—but even so, Black recalls her hardhearted little shadowling who made no apology for his ugliness. Her proud little king who bowed to no one. And she thinks yes, he had been remarkable. But Shiro...

Shiro has somehow netted himself wisdom. Shiro has netted himself, not softness, but calm. And so, his wrath is worldshaking. The fury of a patient man spurs Black forward, anger burning beyond containment, and the Lion is moved with such stirrings of love for him that wings burst from her shoulders and open wide. 

This is her paladin, greatest of the lot. This battered, battle-toughened heart is her champion. Who keeps faith when others give into despair, whose strength drags them up alongside him, to become people they hadn't known they could be. Who moves them to declare war on all chaos and suffering in the universe. 

_This_ is Black's human. And Black loves Shiro as though loving Zarkon had taught her nothing.

***

Their dear little monster has become a monster in fact.

He will consume all of existence if he is not stopped. 

It hurts, to have their two most beloved people at war with each other. But their paladin is just that—a paladin, a warrior for a good and noble cause. The Black can't spirit him away to show him the wonders of creation, not while that very creation is still under siege by the Galra empire. No, not their paladin, who is everything Zarkon should have been and much more besides. Whose spine has more steel in it than Zarkon could manage in a thousand lifetimes. The Black loves Zarkon. The Black will love him forever. They'd thought Zarkon was unique among mortals. And it was true, but the Black had had no idea, just how much more the little things were capable of.

Zarkon pines for them. Even now. He calls for them in the night, coming apart, screaming mad, _why would you leave me?_

They do not require Zarkon's love.

They are not lessened by its absence. 

The Black Lion would like to look at Zarkon's face and tell him, _I'm sorry for all the ways I failed you._

***

_If he isn't stopped, you will have failed again._

Now, her pride watches and waits. They follow her; whatever she chooses, they will submit to it.

Zarkon's story should have ended long ago. He was hers to protect. He was hers to guide. If he isn't stopped, she will have failed all the universe she wanders. She will have failed the pride that looks to her for direction. And she will have failed her paladin as well. 

***

_If Zarkon could be here... If he weren't what he is..._

Shiro contemplates a spoonful of the green biomass he and the other paladins subsist off of, watching the goo drip back into his bowl. _If Zarkon,_ he settles, _could revert to the person you knew, would you want him for your paladin?_

Around him, the other paladins chatter. The Lion is a spill of ink across Shiro's consciousness.

_Yes._

Yes, the Black Lion would want Zarkon. Yes, the Black Lion _does_ want Zarkon.

Shiro finishes dinner without incident. He retreats to his rack, and sits with his eyes fixed on the stars outside. He says not a word, but the thought sparks inside him. Tiny; burning lower than a spent candle,

_What would happen to me?_

When Shiro blinks, his Lion's eyes are the dawn. Warm, cold, beautiful, terrible. Shiro presses, _What would happen to m-_

_Nothing at all._

And Shiro knows himself for a fool.

 _Doubter._ He can feel his Lion smile. The winking stars make Shiro's cheeks flame as he ducks his head. There is wetness at the corners of his eyes, but his mouth twitches upward as the truth settles in his heart like a roaring fire, a rushing river. The surety of stone and the intractable stubbornness of that thing called _alive._

The Black Lion moves only forward, never back. The Black Lion does not break vow. The Black Lion

wants Shiro

_more._

***

Zarkon's armor looms, horrifying. The paladins strike together one final time.

The light flares bright and the Black Lion thinks, _I have failed._

***

Shiro stands in perfect darkness. There are no stars above him. He looks up. He looks left and right. He turns around, to where the Black Lion is watching him.

Shiro's eyes are blank with horror. 

“What have you done?”


	6. Chapter 6

Shiro has left her with an entirely unwelcome gift. 

The act of taking his soul into her keeping drained the Black Lion near dry. She cannot fight in this state, not without a mortal's help. But there has been no effort made, no energy devoted to reclaiming Takashi's mortal body. In part, this is the Black Lion's own failing; she cannot communicate what needs to be done. Her pride understands that she swallowed him. They are nearly as ancient as she and on this understanding, they cannot be moved—the Black swallowed them and they became Lions. They cannot go back, they cannot again become the dawn and the river and the cave. She swallowed them because she loved them. She swallowed her paladin because she loved him. Why would she want to take that back, does she love him no longer?

The Black Lion cannot make them understand that it isn't the same.

Leading again, to her unwelcome gift. 

Shiro, by the instruction he left before battling Zarkon, has stolen the tiny boy that Red loves. And has given him to her. A mortal no stronger than a little flame, burning in the center an opened palm. So very easy to _snuff._

She is angry with Shiro for this. The other paladins have anchored on Keith as a solution to the problem of Black's missing mortal. How can she convince them that Shiro might yet be retrieved, if their minds aren't open to trying? Keith, out of all of them, was her hope. The one who she'd trusted to keep the faith, to be open to solutions. To _hear_ her. But he listens no better than the others.

She supposes it was foolhardy to expect otherwise; he isn't her paladin, he cannot speak with her like he could with Red. Like she could with Shiro. It is an endless frustration that the one person who could have understood and relayed her message, is the one person rendered even more voiceless than she. 

Inside her heart, Shiro howls. He roils night and day, coming apart, screaming mad, _why would she leave him here?_

To keep him in such a state is cruelty. 

But he is the Lion's to command. And the Lion's to dismiss. That much has never changed.

The paladins forge stubbornly ahead, unwilling or unable to heed her. There was a time when the Black Lion gave no quarter to witless servants. Many a priest and many an acolyte throughout millennia has seen the terror of invoking her ire. At one time, she might have punished these paladins. At one time, she might have taken her pride and abandoned them to their own foolishness. She has done worse for less. Much less.

But she has learned patience with mortals. It is a sharp thistle of irony that much of this patience, she learned by loving Zarkon. _Your loves are mine,_ she'd told him, and she kept her word. For his sake, she'd learned to extend her patience to his tiny wife. And then, to his troupe of paladins. And then, to the people of Daibazaal, and beyond. The beloveds of her beloved were the foundation for her learning. She extends that patience to Shiro's troupe as well, for his loves are hers. Their inaction doesn't come from insolence, only from weakness. And the Lion knows _weakness_ is something that has dogged mortals since the dawn of their being.

So, she lends her strength as best as she can to a doomed endeavor. And it _is_ doomed, by a simple fact: the Black cannot operate indefinitely without her paladin. She will starve. Slowly, but she has already begun. This will collapse. Verily, her pride and paladins are headed for collapse.

But there is still work to be done. There is always work to be done, the universe won't stop turning because she and her paladin suffered an injustice. It won't stop turning while it waits for her to starve. So, she takes on Red's boy. He's harsh with her; he yells when he could have whispered, he demands instead of earns. But he is far from the worst mortal she has ever met, and both Shiro and Red love him. So, the Black Lion holds him at length, clasped tenderly as spun sugar and fine glass, for he is beloved of her loved ones. Not her partner, not her other half, but undeniably precious and dearly, dearly kept.

There is work to be done and the paladins try. They try very hard. But they're suffering. And as much as the Black Lion feels for them, it is a plight of their own making. Their own satisfaction of search has lead to this instability, their own willingness to stop hunting, stop trying, their own deaf ears and closed minds that won't listen to her, even when she _has the answer waiting here_... 

Shiro screams for them. Every time Keith enters the Black's mouth, he screams. He has never been heard. 

Voltron barely forms, but the paladins celebrate seeing him at all. They sprint headlong toward implosion. And they know—they must know—but do not discuss the dread she sees weigh down their shoulders, the terrible knowledge that the ground they stand upon is sinking. This cannot last. But without Shiro, what choice do they have? The universe won't wait.

At least the implosion is a slow one. 

Until one day, from deep in her heart, Shiro rouses to whisper, _Look._

The Black swings her head around, reaching outward. The thing Shiro noticed is a young mortal—young even for them. Very weak, she can tell it is near death. But what arrests her attention is that Black _knows_ this signature. The impossible resemblance to her Shiro has her tearing between stars in single-minded pursuit. 

_It is your brother,_ Black says, and is glad for him. Her paladin has spoken of his brother— _Ryou_ —and of how he's missed him. It is difficult to be far from family; all the paladins have struggled with it. Whatever providence brought Shiro's brother here, it is good that they found him. Good that they found him still alive.

But Shiro looks down at the child. And he says to Black that this is not Ryou at all.

***

Time passes. To the paladins, as small as they are, as close to the ground, things do not appear overtly amiss. It comes only as a creeping fear they cannot name. But the Black Lion is the sky and the Black Lion sees everything. There is chaos unfolding. Zarkon's son teeters on the brink. Red's little boy is trying to serve two masters. The Coalition has lost one of its heads, and in the midst of it all, a tiny child has been born.

He is unfinished. He's floundering and so very brave. He is Shiro's youngest brother and the Black Lion adores him. When he steps up to replace Keith, at first she doesn't want to allow him in. Doesn't want to hurt him, for he could never withstand the drain Black imposes on her paladin.

Which.

He isn't. 

He isn't her paladin. Yet by some Galran vulgarity, he has been made to believe he _is_ Takashi Shirogane, and it's a lie that is devastating in its completeness. And so, Black is forced to stand in silence as a boy—the spitting image of her Shiro—comes to her again and again, asking why she's left him. Why she won't talk to him.

Why she doesn't love him anymore.

And she can give him no comfort. She cannot even speak, to tell him none of this is his doing. 

But she can open her mouth. She can take him on, in the same way she took on Red's paladin, Keith. She can let him direct her, lead the paladins in battle, while she shields him from the worst of her hungers.

And he does well. He whispers instead of yells. He earns instead of demands. Yes, he is unpolished. And with so little living, he lacks Shiro's wisdom. But he does well. And the Black Lion is pleased with his offering. He is a better fit than Keith was.

But ultimately he too, is only forestalling the inevitable. 

Without Shiro, it seems all the paladins can do is stall the inevitable. 

***

The Black loves like loving Zarkon taught him nothing. He will _not_ love like loving Shiro taught him nothing. He will hold his failures close to his heart. He will weather the storm he feels incoming, and wait for a chance to start anew.

And when it comes, it is as horrid as he could have feared. Before his eyes, realities shrivel and disappear, torn apart by the same power the Lion used to bring his pride here, at their story's beginning. Zarkon's son has harvested it, _perverted_ it to an abomination that stokes the Lion's rage beyond recompense. 

He could not save Zarkon. He could not save Zarkon's child. He could not even save his own paladin—for though Shiro has done the unheard of, directing the Lion even from inside the astral plane, he still remains just as trapped. 

And when all the Lions' efforts are exhausted, and the universe calms its squalling, Black looks at the little child who'd thought himself Black's paladin and realizes, _I can't save you._

***

Shiro's spine bends under the solemn sadness of his Lion and he realizes, _Black can't save him._ The clone, Black can't save him.

And at first, after so much time in the astral plane, Shiro doesn't understand. His reactions are slow, his comprehension sluggish, of the ways in which mortals die. But when it finally clicks, his mind is jolted to movement. Shiro registers denial—how can there be someone Black can't save? There's nothing the Lions can't do, how can this be beyond him? He wants to bargain—they can take the clone away from here. Take him away, stop this, keep him alive... somewhere. Anywhere. Tell the other Lions, tell the other paladins, _make them understand._ And then there is outrage—Black can't save the clone and Shiro wants to shriek, _why not?_ Anger towards his Lion feels painful, feels heavy, feels wrong, and yet his heart still rails, _why not, why not, what good are you if you can't do this?_ And he feels depression—why did he let himself think there was a way out? That they could be better? This is a child; he's innocent, he doesn't even have his own _name_ yet, and he's going to die. Shiro feels all of this in an instant that stretches to an eon. 

Before he comes to the acceptance that this simply _cannot_ be accepted.

And in the end, Shiro responds in the only way Shiro can, when faced with impossible trials. Black can't save the clone. No one else is willing to try.

So, he'll do it himself.

***

Black watches with pride and sadness while the reaction begins to take place. As simple as chemistry can be: breaking bonds to form new ones. It happens in every nook and cranny of the space once filled by their connection; each tendril and coil of Shiro's presence carefully unhooking itself, letting go of Black, one thread at a time. And Shiro takes that energy and transfers it to the clone, wrapping the second soul up with his own, making of himself an anchor to keep the other from fading away. It is its own kind of ironic: Shiro learned how to do this from the Black. Black had done this same thing for him.

The Black Lion is greedy. This won't be enough to make him forget Shiro is his. He'll keep chasing, he _will_ get him back. He will.

But if he were given to it, he'd be weeping. 

When he looks up, the astral plane is empty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having a really bad day and as a result this is probably rambling, as it hasn't remotely been edited. I apologize for that, I just needed to get it posted now, otherwise it wasn't going to happen.  
> Also it's not terribly important, but I headcanon Shiro as one of three siblings, with a twin brother and a younger sister.  
> Last chapter tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

He has been so patient.

He has seen his paladin murdered. He has seen his pride beaten and tattered. He has kept Red's precious boy safe and whole through fierce fighting, and delivered him through to the other side. He has watched a new wanderer enter the skies after Shiro, _his_ paladin, shaped sentience from an empty ship and molded a wellspring of Altean energy into something _alive._ (The Green Lion is no longer his youngest; with this bright new soul Shiro guided into the worlds, the Black now counts them a pride of six.) He breathed out long and heavy, when Zarkon _finally,_ finally laid down and died at last. Through exhaustion, through _privation,_ the Black Lion has fought and withstood. And he has done so without his paladin's help (for indomitable as Shiro is, the infant Atlas needed him more). The Black Lion held himself still as the Altean princess, Allura—his pride's scion in this reality, their herald and the heir to their building—dropped herself headlong into chaos, to defeat the greatest enemy they'd ever faced. 

He has waited. For the good of all, he has been patient. 

The Lions can only move forward. They can't ever cease what they are, to become what they were. But Alfor built them into being to protect what is just and repair what is wrong. So, he calls his pride of six to himself, and the Lions go hunting. And when that pride of six comes tearing out of the aether, back into realspace with one exhausted Altean in tow, he is _done_ being patient. 

They head for New Altea, where Lance comes running to greet them, flanked by Shiro's brothers and all of them amazed. As Lance babbles nonsense into Allura's hair, her tired hands wrap round his back to squeeze him tight. Lance gazes up at the pride with his best friend back in his arms and tears shining on his cheeks. Blue leans her head down near theirs, endlessly careful and endlessly joyful, simply to have their tiny hands on her face. Then Allura turns around and stretches her arms out to Shiro's brothers—greeting one for the first time and welcoming the other as an old and dear friend. Twin smiles light their faces and when they turn to reach up, the Black Lion lowers his head, to let them press their hands to him. By the time the Lion looks up again, Coran has tottered out to see what the fuss is. He stands with his mouth open, blinking rapidly. Then years lift from his face and shoulders as though by magic. The hunch in his back straightens out as Allura rushes into his arms.

Around them, New Altea is in full bloom. The happiness of this place stirs the Black Lion's heart and his impatience flares all the higher. Standing on still-shaking legs, Allura salutes them, proud and smiling, their fierce little queen returned to her station. With the pride's heir and herald safely delivered, he at last turns his sights to Earth. 

And Shiro isn't there.

When his sister steps squinting into the sunlight, to see the imperious Black Lion hovering high above with downwash making a terrible mess, she laughs at the beast and shakes her head. _No, Takashi isn't here_.

Black finds him scrambling among the cliffs of one of the great spires bridging a toroidal dwarf in the Lenvu system. (There is an insect here, one that will serve as the ancestor for a people not yet seen in this reality. When they come to be, they will look up at the sky and tell stories about the Lions.) Huge towers of crystal and ice, the spires pierce the interior sea of clouds, spanning the entire length of the planetary ring. And Shiro went and climbed them.

The Black isn't surprised to find Shiro here. Not his paladin, who is bold and curious, who cannot be broken for anyone. Who will wander the universe with or without him. 

Who, true to form, appears to have run afoul of the local fauna. Sharp creatures covered in geometric plates of armor, snap at his heels even now. But they are scattered by a single sweep of Black's tail.

And when they've scrambled away and he looks up again, there is Shiro. Small against the glacial ice, he stands surefooted on an outcropping of diamond. He's found a partner in the time that Black's been gone, who now clasps his hand tightly as the Lion looms above their heads.

The Lion's heart aches at the way Shiro's eyes widen with shock. With the disbelief of one who has lost so much, had _so much_ taken from him— For one second, Shiro is small and frightened, is raw and hurting, unable to trust the sight of his Lion hovering before him in the burning sunlight above the clouds.

But then Shiro grins. And he is again the bright and bold and temerarious thing that Black so loves, hurting and healing and always moving forward. Shiro waves his hands and yells, "I've been waiting!"

***

His pride is at his back. 

The wanderer's skin isn't metal any longer, that time has come and gone. Astride his back, Shiro cranes his head to peer overtop of flaring wings. The universe is vast, but Shiro cants his weight forward, unafraid to be seen by things that are massive. His brothers wait on New Altea. His sister waits on Earth. As does his husband. His paladins, his friends—Shiro will see them again, he isn't going forever. For the first time in Shiro's life, he has all the time he could possibly need. And he's found a partner who will wait for him.

The whole of existence sprawls out ahead, brimming with everything that has ever been dreamt. The Black Lion looks down.

His paws are white again.

With a loud roar, the Lion rips reality open, and the pride springs forward into a new story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that felt good.  
> Happy birthday to our space adventurer!


End file.
